All the Names I Called You
by ManicVergingonPsychotic
Summary: A.U. Where Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran go to the same secondary school. Jim's life is shades of grey and white until he meets a mysterious boy who shows him colour.


Jim carefully reaches for an apple, pressing the cool skin of it against his face and closing his eyes slowly, trying to shake off the nightmare from last night. Traces of it still flicker against the back of his eyelids. Echoes of the fear and images reverberating around his head. He scrunches his eyes closed as tight as they will go before opening them to glance around the airy white kitchen, shadows and lights still dancing across his vision. He crunches into the apple, the green skin breaking beneath his teeth. It reminds him too much of the nightmare and he has to spit the remains into the shiny silver bin in before wiping his chin and grabbing his schoolbag.

He always walks the same route to and from school. It makes him feel calm and gives him stability in his life, which he especially needs after waking up feeling like he's trapped in his bed sheets or coming home with another day of having to deal with idiots. He likes listening to music as he goes and gently humming along to the tune. It's one of the only things he does that he considers normal. One of the only things other people would do.

***

School is boring, as always. He leans back in his chair, tapping his pencil on his workbook, the light streaming in the wide windows. He sighs, counting the hours until school is over. He has this Latin lesson and then sports outside is his last period. God, sports. He abhors sports. He can do sports fine, he just hates the team work aspect. He works best alone doing what he wants, when he wants. He'd much rather curl up under a tree somewhere reading a book than work with the imbeciles he's forced to call classmates. He's scolded by his teacher for swinging in his chair, and rests the feet back on the ground slowly. Waiting until she turns her back to raise them again.

The bell rings, all too soon, interrupting him from his reverie. He can't remember what he'd been daydreaming about, probably just trying to forget last night and the haunting images. He clumsily puts his stuff in his bag and wanders down to the changing rooms for sports. He's bustled along by the running children, weirdly keen to get to class. He gets shoved into the wall a couple of times, knocking his shoulder more than once. He sighs delicately to himself and decides against shouting at the younger kids. He decides today is a day to skip sports. He thinks if he has to run around with any more annoying, boring, plain people he'll scream. It's last period, he might as well go home, or at least find somewhere quiet to read.

He's settled a while from the sports ground, book open in his lap, wind rustling across the empty, flat running track and creating patterns of dust and sand in the air. He squints, trying to keep the grit out of his eyes, and hangs his head back down to read his book. He doesn't realise the time passing, he reads a few chapters and some shadows flicker over the empty running track. Everyone's on the sport's ground, which is on Jim's left, he's sitting so his left shoulder is facing it, his legs crossed.

It's hot, the sun is pounding down on Jim but the strong wind keeps him cool. Smaller stones and grit around his feet are stolen by the wind and whisked off to somewhere else. Whoops of delight at winning and moans of anger or determination at losing slowly find their way across the pitch to Jim's ears, but he's so lost he doesn't notice them. He's so engrossed in his book he doesn't realise the ball sailing his way.

It hits him on his left temple. Hard. He mutters a swear word to himself, before looking around. There's a tall boy standing there, looking concerned.

"Are you alright?" he shouts towards Jim

"What do you think?" Jim replies

"Just leave him!" someone behind the tall boy exclaims. "He's a waste of space, just get the ball back."

Jim ignores them, keeping his gaze on the tall boy. He has light brown hair and sparkling green eyes. He's wearing a loose white shirt that's covered in the dust blowing across the pitch and long-ish shorts that reach his knees. His feet are clad in beaten up black high-top converses. They look old, like he's worn them for a while, or like they've been handed down to him. The bell rings, echoing from the school building across the sports area. The tall boy smiles at Jim, a wide smile full of teeth, waves once then he turns and runs.

That is the first time Jim sees the mysterious boy.

***

Jim puts his earbuds in as he walks home, wishing he'd worn something a bit more waterproof as the warm windy temperature transitions into pouring rain. His grey long sleeved shirt is already soaked through, and his jeans have moisture creeping up them, like hands travelling up his legs. He turns his music up, hoping it will distract him from how cold and grey he's feeling. The ball had left a wide gash on his forehead, and the blood had been stinging his eyes for a while. He wipes it away for the hundredth time lazily with his thumb.

Something catches his eye as he's walking. It's a jacket, hanging off a tree on his walk home. It's black and made of leather. It's definitely seen better days. It's holey around the cuffs and the leather is very worn at certain parts. But, a jacket is a jacket and he puts it on without doubting its origins. It's still warm, and Jim quickly draws it up around him savouring the release from the rain it gives him.

As he's eating the spaghetti he made himself at the kitchen counter, propped up on an uncomfortable stool, he realises he's thinking about the smiling boy. Again. He can remember his low voice; lower than many of the boys in his year, with the familiar Irish accent that makes him feel safe. He remembered the boy's bare arms, the veins of them sticking out from exertion at whatever game he'd been playing. He can remember the boy's smile. Wide and friendly. It was a comforting smile, one that could lull you into a false sense of security. But Jim knows better.

He's not exactly sure why the boy sticks in his mind. Maybe it's just because he showed concern for Jim and that never happens. Jim is one of these people who slips through the cracks. If you asked every single one of Jim's classmates to list their class none of them would remember him. He doesn't talk in class, doesn't answer questions, but he also does the work on time and makes sure he looks presentable so teacher's don't think he comes from a broken home. He forces himself to be plain, to be hard to remember. That way, people don't ask questions.

There's another reason the boy sticks in his mind but Jim chooses to ignore it.

Jim doesn't sleep. Well, he does, but not of his own free will. He can't sleep, too haunted by the dreams that come to him when he falls into unconsciousness. He only grasps a few hours of sleep when his body gives up and he finally passes out. He doesn't spend his hours awake at night doing much. Reading, occasionally he watches television, although it really annoys him, it's all so gaudy and chatty and no one on it is actually interesting, they've only succeeded to get on the TV by faking their way through the business.

Detective shows are predictable, reality television is annoying, soaps have no continuity. Sports also hold no interest and news is just the same everyday. There's always a natural disaster or genocide somewhere, it's just interchangeable names and countries.

Tonight he paces. He walks around the empty house, the airy, light kitchen now haunted by shadows cast in by the wide window. He pads slowly over the soft carpet in the living room. The house has a minimalist air throughout, white everywhere with little furniture. Little furniture, little decoration, little life, little people. Just Jim. Just Jim on his own. He opens the cupboard, thinking that he wants to be alone somewhere small. Slowly putting his hand out in front of him, to seek direction in the dark, his hand touches an alien fabric. He freezes for a moment, trying to figure out what it could be. Then he realises it's the leather jacket he found earlier. He takes it out of the cupboard putting it on over his t-shirt and long pyjama bottoms. Somehow it still feels warm, although Jim knows that's not possible. It smells like cigarettes and mint and soap but best of all it feels like a hug. It's too big for him, obviously belonging to a taller person, and the sleeves go past his hands. Jim climbs into the cupboard, drawing his knees up to his chest and folding his arms, resting his back against the wall. It feels like he's got a friend in there with him, protecting him from the inevitable nightmares tonight will bring. Somehow, those nightmares don't seem so scary tonight.

Jim wakes up in the morning with a crick in his neck and sweat on his forehead. He was naïve to think the nightmares would take a vacation just because he had a warm jacket on. He opens the creaky door to the cupboard, climbing out from his uncomfortable position. He pads through to the bathroom, cranking the water handle. He takes a warm shower, watching the bubbles form on his long fingers then spiral down the plughole as he washes them off.

As he nibbles the edge of a crust of toast he's irritated to discover the only way he can shoo images of last night from his head is to try and make the mysterious boy a background story. He gives him a fake name and guesses his age and habits, interests and hobbies.

Whilst Jim is dressing he finally decides on a perfect name. He'll call him Oliver. He guesses that he's seventeen, the same age as him and that he likes sports and reading. He picks favourite books for him, which end up just being Jim's favourites. As he's picking a song to listen to on his iPod on the way to school he wonders if Oliver would like it.

Jim knows it's crazy, he's seventeen and should not be entertaining the idea of an imaginary friend. Besides, what was so interesting about Oliver that has caused Jim to focus on him? There was just something about him. Something indescribable that made him different, made him stand out from the boring people at school. Jim tries to pinpoint it, but it's hard. He thinks it's the moment when he turned away from him, that smile still gracing his lips, the way he looked at Jim, not looked past him or looked through him. He actually saw him and Jim saw him as well. But not just saw him, his face, features, body but _him_, like he saw through his eyes, saw his character his personality. Jim is about to think it's like he saw his soul, but he stops himself before he gets too wet and soppy.

Classes are boring. He already knows the coursework inside and out, studying it in rare bouts of enthusiasm when he's awake all night. He doesn't mind maths as much. There's something delicately beautiful about maths. It could go either way, it like a tipping scale, one point of a decimal out and it goes one way, crashing too the ground by one point of a decimal the other it soars. You could be a failure or a genius based up a tiny fraction of change. It fascinates him.

As he eats his lunch, hiding in a tiny space in the wall, he hears a laugh. It's so loud and unashamed. It could fill up a room and echoes throughout the crowded playground. Jim smiles at it, he has no idea what the person was laughing at or who they were, but the fact they don't care that half the school could be watching and they laugh so happily brightens Jim's day. He secretly hopes it's the mystery boy who's laughing. He doesn't know it but, it is.

He sees his mystery boy a couple more times. In class occasionally, more often he spots him reading to himself in the library. Jim notices that when he reads his the words dance upon his lips, forming, hesitating then dropping away quickly. His lips make a beautiful shape when he's confused, pursing slightly. Jim casts aside that thought as quick as he can and tries to stop watching the boy reading to himself. Unsuccessfully.

He comes home school, changing quickly and going out for his usual, three-times-a-week, run. He puts his earbuds in and turns them up as loud as they'll go. He's often told that makes you go deaf, but he doesn't care. At least then he could blank out all the stupidity he has to put up with.

Surely he's not the only one, he prays. There must be someone else out there who sees the world through similar eyes. There has to be. He doesn't believe it, but saying it to himself calms him down.

He takes the back road behind his house, pretending in his head that Oliver is running beside him. By now, he's convinced himself that Oliver is a fictional person that he created to entertain himself. He chooses to ignore the glaring piece of evidence in the shape of a large cut on his forehead.

It's a cold, wet evening. The drops of rain rolling off the pine trees give the forest an eerie appearance as if it's crying. He gazes around as he pauses for a quick break, wiping the mud off his shoes delicately and taking large gasping breaths in and out to calm his heartbeat. He can hear it echo in his ears.

A large bird suddenly takes flight, rustling the trees and causing a whole flock of birds to mimic it. Jim jumps at first, startled by the sudden noise, but then he smiles at the beauty of them, swirling above his head like a tornado pattern. He rolls his head and then continues on his run. Slowly building up the pace.

He turns out onto the road, forgetting to check if there are any cars behind him, the tune of Mozart's Clarinet Concerto in A swelling in his ears. He smiles as it gets to his favourite part. He doesn't notice the car, until it's too late and it's hit him.

Tarmac claps against his head all too hard, his shoulder screams in pain and gravel decides to embed itself in his knees and calf. He moans slightly, it's not the pain so much as the surprise of it leaping upon him. Why hadn't he seen the car?

"Shit, are you okay?" someone runs over to him, slamming the car door with abandon.

Jim slowly opens on of his eyes, he is greeted with a titled view through fog of someone he could swear is…

"Oliver." he whispers.

"What? Are you okay?" the stranger says, clutching his shoulder, and trying to roll him around to face him. "Oliver? Is that your name? Oliver can you hear me?" Jim smiles because he finds it extremely ironic that this man thinks Oliver is _his_ name.

"Don't worry Oliver, you're okay now, I'll get you to the hospital, we're not far from it, it'll only take a couple of minutes." Jim wonders if this talking is for his benefit or Jim's. He doesn't know who he's trying to calm down, but it seems to work for both of them.

Oliver, or whatever the stranger's name is, wraps Jim up in a blanket he finds in the boot and deposits him in the front seat. "Oliver can you talk to me? I don't want you to go to sleep in case you're concussed."

"You do realise." Jim says slowly "That this is the second time you've attacked me in a two day period." he turns to look at the tall boy. "Maybe I should call the police."

"Well, trust me when I say I didn't mean to hurt you, either times."

"Oh really?" Jim says smiling. "I thought it was a murder plot and you're just a badly trained assassin."

"No no no, trust me." Oliver says laughing. "If I was an assassin, I'd be lethal. You'd be dead by now."

"Great thing to say to someone you just hit with your car."

"I did apologise, and I was hypothetically speaking." Oliver says, pulling his brownish hair slightly with his free hand, and leaning his elbow on the ledge next to the window of the car.

They arrive at the hospital all too soon for Jim's liking, he's led into a small room but Oliver is told he has to wait outside in the waiting room, the nurse not believing his fake story about being his brother. The last glimpse Jim gets of him, is him resting his elbows on his knees, head down, ruffling his hair in stress.

The nurse sees to Jim, saying he's fine except some bruises and cuts, she says he might have mild concussion and asks if he has someone to wake him up every few hours or so. Jim lies that he does. He peeks out of the door, seeing "Oliver" biting his thumb. He's surprised that he hasn't left, ditched Jim to save himself. Jim's scared. He's never joked or laughed with someone before. He's scared of getting close to someone, scared of the impact they could have. He leaves the hospital, making sure "Oliver" doesn't see him on the way out.

It's the weekend, several days after the car accident. Jim hates weekends. They're boring. Nothing to do, no one to see. He gets up, showers and dresses even though he doesn't have anywhere to be. He's desperate to kill the time. He had the nightmares again last night, like he does every night. He only managed to snatch two hours sleep.

He finishes all his homework within an hour, it was too easy. Not challenging at all. He's surprised it actually took him as long as it did. In a fit of boredom he decides to clean the house, but it's not that dirty seeing as he is naturally quite clean in his actions and doesn't make much mess. He's also not here that much, getting up early in the morning and running or reading after school. He takes his time anyway, not wanting to have even more spare time on his hands.

The cleaning only takes a couple of hours, and then he's back to being bored. He alphabetises his books; this takes more time, due to the large number of them. Then, he decides he has to "get back on the horse" and pulls on his trainers and goes outside for a run. Part of him sneakily hopes that he'll get to see Oliver again but he squashes it down. If last week's incident showed him anything it's that this man probably doesn't like Jim or has been set up by some friends. Oliver and Jim could never be friends he thinks. Jim could never have friends, he's not friend material. People want someone kinder, friendlier, more fun and interesting. Jim's not interesting, he's boring. He's only interesting to himself. He doesn't like the things normal people do. He's weird. A freak. An outcast. A reject.

Jim can still hear the whispers of what they used to call him trailing behind him as he runs. It's like the insults of the past are chasing him, nipping at his heels, still hurting him today and making his heart ache.

He used to get bullied at his old school. He still does now. When he was in primary school, the bullying was much worse. He'd get hunted down, beaten up, called so many names that he'd need a hundred fingers to count them. He could remember them all though. They never left him. Sometimes, when he had a bad day, it was like they were all floating above his eyes, melting together to form one large crowd of insults that meant he couldn't focus or carry on.

There's no sign of his mysterious friend, until he nearly runs into a tree, just to add to his list of injuries, and sees something carved onto the bark.

OLIVER – 0704323357975

He swears quietly to himself because he doesn't have any method of writing it down. But he has a good memory and whispers it to himself the whole run home.

Jim hurriedly types the number into his phone then he pauses. He's raced straight to his bedroom just in from sprinting all the way home. There's sweat dripping off his forehead and he's still in his wet clothes.

What if it was someone else? But, it was exactly at the location where the crash happened and how many Olivers are there in this town?

What if it was a trick? What if Oliver was set up to do this to Jim?

It would be a whole lot easier if Oliver had _his_ number and made the first move so that Jim could judge what to do from there.

Jim's not used to talking to people, much, he's not used to it. He's scared of talking to Oliver, it's too risky; Jim's not the sort of person that Oliver should see. It's too dangerous. Jim is no good. He can't ruin the one good thing he's found in this world. Jim deletes the number and lies back on his bed.

***

The next morning he regrets it. He tries to remember the number, concentrating hard to recall the digits, but he can't. He angrily throws his phone at the wall, leaving it there and the turns in bed so he's not facing it. He should've at least given it a chance. He could've had a friend. Just one.

Jim's town is quite small. It's in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by greenery all around. It has a tall monument in the middle of town, but no one ever goes to look at it, they just cluster around it because it's where all the small shops are. There's a post office, a dingy pub, a tiny corner shop and a pharmacy. Jim walks up to the small monument. He had nothing better to do so he's gone out for a short walk.

It's made of crumbling stone that's been severely weathered by the cruel rain beating down on it. It's a war memorial, in the shape of a soldier trying to walk into strong wind, his tin hat perched precariously on his head, a look of grim determination upon his lips. It's been here since World War One. "_Pray to never forget_." is inscribed in small letters along the base. Jim sneers. That's exactly his problem. He can never forget. And he can never forgive.

The plan was to loop around on the walk home and look for the message Oliver left him with his number but he gets distracted when he hears someone talking.

"I just think that stargazing is my favourite thing to do, I know it sounds stupid."

"Yeah it kind of does. And gay."

The first person sighs. "Never mind." he says. Jim catches a glimpse of him as he walks around a corner. It's him. Oliver. Jim quickly ducks out of sight, waiting until Oliver's passed with what looks like an older version of himself. Jim watches Oliver walk away, a look of regret on his face. Like he'd opened up one secret thing to someone and wished he hadn't because they'd thrown it in his face.

That night, Jim walks outside and looks at the stars. He's never appreciated them before but now they're one of the most beautiful things he can picture.

He doesn't want to admit what the most beautiful one is.

***

The next day, Jim's back at school. Whilst he detests school, all of it the building, pupils and teachers, he's glad of the break from aimlessly wandering around his empty house. People often describe empty houses as haunted but Jim thinks if there were even ghosts in his place they'd pack up their bags and leave.

He's walking to his locker going past the school office when he hears the commotion.

"No, no, you don't understand, I don't _know_ his last name! He's medium height, black hair and large brown eyes."

"And what did you say his first name was?"

"Oliver."

"I'm sorry, but we don't have any Olivers registered here."

Jim's eyes widen as he realises it's the mystery boy, who's name clearly isn't Oliver, and he's looking for Jim. He quickly turns around, attempting to blend in with the crowd so that his enigmatic friend doesn't see him.

He wants a friend but he knows he can't have one. Not yet.

***

It's a couple of weeks later and Jim has convinced himself that mooning over a person he hardly knows is ridiculous and he should just snap out of it. He still looks at the stars though. He enjoys the thought that somewhere, maybe not as far away as he thinks, he's watching them too.

He wakes up the next morning as his phone bleeps with a reminder. He's still panting slightly from last night's nightmare but he calms himself down slowly and reads the persistently bleeping notice.

16th April – School Trip

He curses to himself. How did he forget? He swipes his thumb across the screen and reads the notes underneath the reminder. Basically it's a trip to a history site that he has to go to, he faintly remembers forging a signature on the permission slip. He sighs again, rolling onto his back and resting his hand over his eyes, trying to block out all the glaring white of his bedroom. He sighs again and heaves himself up for a shower.

As he's putting bread into the toaster and towel drying his hair he considers skipping. There's not much point, he'd be doing nothing at home anyway, and if it's boring there he can always get a bus back and just lie about a stomach ache to his teacher.

Jim sits alone on the bus there, preferring to drown people out. There's a loud bunch of kids at the back, including his main tormenter Carl. He leans against the window, pulling his hood up and reading his book. It's a new one, on astrology.

They arrive at the battlefield rather shakily, having to had stop several times for a girl with blonde pigtails who suffered from motion sickness. Jim is happy to be away from the crusty carpeted seats and stagnant air. He inhales a gust of fresh, cold air and stretches his arms. Today will probably be boring, but not as dull as it normally is.

It's on the empty stretch of land that they catch him. Carl and his group. He should have seen them coming, he was stupid not to, but he was busy thinking. The catch him from behind, squealing with delight. The nearest teacher is too far away and besides, Jim's voice would be stolen by the wind that's sprinting across the empty stretch of land. They hit him a couple of times, cutting his forehead, again, and kicking him in the stomach.

He finally manages to dash away, spotting a groundskeeper's, heaven knows why a battlefield needs an innkeeper, shed hidden in some trees to one side of the field. It's shaky and falling apart, cobbled together out of old pieces of wood with one small window. He hurriedly pulls the door open, his cold fingers fumbling over the handles and darts inside.

Inside a startled face looks up from his book. "No!" he exclaims "Don't-" Jim jumps, slamming the door. "…shut the door." the boy finishes. Oliver, or whatever his name actually is, stands up. "The door's locked on the inside." he says, tugging on the handle. "See?" he turns around to look at Jim, who's cowering under the window. "Hey don't I know you?" he says, only getting to look at him properly for the first time as the dim light of the shed has prevented him earlier. "You're Oliver!" he smiles wide. "I can't believe it's really you!"

"My name isn't Oliver." Jim says, all too aware of the fact that the boy is getting increasingly close to him. "It's Jim."

"Then why did you say 'Oliver' when I hit you?" the tall boy asks, confused, cocking his head to the left slightly, like a confused dog.

Jim blushes. "It's a long story."

"Well," the boy gestures to the shed behind him "We've got plenty time." he smiles down at Jim. "I'm Sebastian by the way," he says, sticking the pencil that was in his hand, behind his ear and offering his hand out to Jim to shake.

Jim takes it tentatively. "Sebastian." he says quietly, narrowing his eyes and smiling. Sebastian definitely suits him better than Oliver. He follows Sebastian over to the corner of the shed he was sitting in and stands beside him. He's very aware of how close he is to Sebastian and goose bumps travel their way up his arms.

"So what were you doing in here?" Jim asks, hoping to distract him from the Oliver story.

"Oh, avoiding the school trip and writing." Sebastian smiles, picking up his notebook and leaning it on one of his hands. Jim notices that he's left handed and that he has long elegant fingers.

"What were you writing?" Jim asks, trying to interrupt his thought pattern.

"Oh, nothing really." Sebastian says, trying to hide the notebook.

"Tell me." Jim laughs. "You owe it to me, you did hit me with a ball…" he points to the small pink scar on his head. "…and a car." he motions to the whale-shaped bruise on his shoulder.

"I _told_ you that that was an _accident_."

"You only accidentally attacked me _twice_. So go on. Spill." Jim says nudging Sebastian's shoulder.

"All right." Sebastian says. "But only because I owe you." he shifts around so that Jim can get a better look at the page he's been scribbling on. He's leaning over one side, Jim over the other, the tops of their heads nearly touching. "You see, it's like this." he points. "I've been tracking this comet for a few days now and I'm hoping it'll fly into the Earth's atmosphere so I can get a good look at it." he points at the drawings he's done. "_But_ I don't know anyone who's good enough at maths to help me."

Jim inhales sharply. "I'm good at maths." he mutters.

"Really? And you don't think that stargazing is stupid or…gay…" he finishes eventually.

Jim scrunches his brow, remembering the conversation between Sebastian and his brother that he witnessed. "No." he says, mocking surprise.

Sebastian turns around to look at him. "Great!" he smiles widely. Jim inhales sharply again, he has such a beautiful smile, it literally takes Jim's breath away.

"By the way," Sebastian continues, his eyes back on his notebook, pencil back in his hand. "Did you get the note I left you? On the tree?" he tries to say it like he doesn't care, but he really does.

Jim's decided that he doesn't want to lie to Sebastian, he's too good for that. "Yes."

Sebastian looks at him, smiling, pleased that he got the note. The smile quickly drops from his face. "Then why didn't you text me?"

Jim sighs, not wanting to lie to Sebastian. "Because I'm not the sort of person you should be hanging around with." he searches for the words. "I'm not really friend material."

Sebastian's eyes are still locked on his notebook as he scribbles. "Well, let me be the judge of that shall we?"

Jim's shocked and glad for the low lighting to hide his blush. He's about to interrupt with some kind of protest when he hears yells outside.

"He must have gone this way." It's Carl and his group out looking for him, his face pales and Sebastian notices.

"Quick," he pushes Jim down next to him "Sit down and be quiet." he whispers, raising his finger to his lip.

Jim is now _extremely_ aware of how close they are to each other, in pushing him down Sebastian ended up pushing Jim's head onto his chest and he can now hear Sebastian's heartbeat. It's surprisingly fast.

Even though he doesn't want to, Jim straightens himself up, pulling away from Sebastian and leaning his head back onto the wall.

He can hear the traces of the boys passing, obviously not bothering to check the shed. Idiots.

"I think they've gone." Sebastian whispers into Jim's ear, his breath flickering across his bare skin.

Jim turns to face Sebastian. "Yes." he smiles, looking down.

"Right." Sebastian says, pulling a torch out of a small bag in the corner next to his notebook. "Truths."

"What?" Jim asks, he's not familiar with the game.

"Truths." Sebastian says again. "You know? Truths?" he laughs at Jim's look of bewilderment. "It's a game, well it's not really a game, basically you have to answer questions about one another truthfully and whoever can't answer a question honestly first looses. It's kind of a girly game, I know…" he babbles "…but I figured since we're in here, we have nothing to do and we have no idea when we're going to get out."

Jim laughs. "Sebastian…you're babbling." he says softly.

Sebastian blushes bright red. "Right. Sorry. It's just that-"

"Sebastian." Jim laughs again.

"Sorry." Sebastian says apologetically.

"It's ok." Jim says looking at Sebastian's hair. It's very nice, a light brown colour, like the colour of hares. "Shall we play?" he says smiling wider.

"Yes. I'll start. You get an easy question first, that's how it goes. You build them up so they get harder and harder to answer." Jim nods. "Favourite colour?"

"Not white." Jim says before thinking.

"Why?" Sebastian asks.

"My whole house is white, it's meant to be spacious and light but I fin it blinding and claustrophobic." Jim says it again, without thinking, then realises that's it's true. He's never told anyone this before.

Sebastian nods. "I guess that makes sense. Okay, you're turn."

Jim thinks for a moment. "What's your full name, anyway?"

"Sebastian Carlton Moran. You?"

"You can't steal my question!" Jim argues

"Can so!" Sebastian tackles back. "Come on, I spent ages thinking you were called Oliver."

"So did I." Jim says under his breath. "No, there has to be a rule against using someone else's question."

"No, there's no rules except for having to tell the truth, you can hardly add rules! You hadn't heard of the game until a couple of minutes ago."

"Fine, fine. I'm James Moriarty, but," Jim scrunches his face up. "Don't call me James, call me Jim."

"James." Sebastian says teasingly.

"Don't." Jim replies, widening his eyes warningly.

"Why don't you like being called James?"

"Because it's my father's name, and I don't like my father. And he doesn't like the name Jim, so I take it."

"Interesting." Sebastian says.

Soon it's dark and the stars come out. Sebastian smiles widely.

"Wow." he breathes "You'd think I'd get tired of watching them, I mean, I do it every night. But I never do." his eyes never break once from the stars. Jim's more preoccupied looking at Sebastian's look of glee, Sebastian doesn't notice.

"Right, I'm changing the rules." Sebastian says.

"You can't just change the rules!" Jim protests.

"Yes I can. One, I started this game, two it'll make it more fun."

"Fine." Jim huffs

"I promise."

"I said 'fine'." Jim throws back.

"Right, now they have to be yes or no questions with yes or no answers."

"Okay, what about 'maybes' or 'I don't knows'?" Jim teases.

Sebastian muses this for a moment. "You only get to use one 'maybe' and one 'I don't know'."

"Fine." Jim nods. "You start."

"Seen Titanic?"

"No."

"What?" Sebastian says shocked

"That's not a yes or no question."

"I know it's not, but I'm shocked at your lack of Titanic-watching-ness."

"That makes no sense."

"I'm still shocked." Sebastian says. "Okay, your turn."

"In love with Titanic?" Jim teases

"No."

"But that whole shocked, 'I can't believe you've never seen it' thing."

"I can't believe you've never seen it, I'm not saying it's good."

Jim snorts. "You're unbelievable."

Sebastian smiles, looking into Jim's eyes for a lingering moment before mentally shaking himself. "Right, my turn." he blushes. Jim doesn't see. "Play sports?"

"No."

"God what exactly do you do with your time?"

"I run, but I don't play sports. Again, you're breaking your own rule, you didn't ask a yes or no question."

"The rules are meant to be broken, how would I find out anything if I didn't ask follow up questions?"

Jim smiles widely, before trying to think of his question. He's never had someone want to find out about him before. And he decides he likes it.

When a bemused janitor finds two young teenage boys asleep in his shed, he closes the door silently, not wanting to wake them whilst he makes the call to secondary school that complained about two lost boys.

The younger one with black hair has his head on the taller one's shoulder, and even in their sleep their hands are linked.

The janitor thinks he's never seen a couple so in love.

The boys can't talk on the journey home. They're being driven by an irate headmaster who's angry at having to pick up teenager boys who skipped a school trip. They're in so much trouble that talking would only seem to aggravate the teacher, and that's on the bottom of they're 'Things I would like to do right now' list.

Jim is conscious of the large gap between them in the car back. He doesn't like it.

Sebastian passes Jim a note written on a crumpled piece of paper from his notebook. His lettering is long and swoopy, quite feminine, almost like copperplate handwriting. It says simply:

"_Why did you say Oliver?"_

Jim writes his reply quickly, disliking his spidery hand.

"_That's not something I can tell you now. But I will one day, I promise_."

It suddenly hits him. Jim's never made a promise before. He smiles to himself keeping this secret in his heart. He's never had a friend before. He like it.


End file.
